A poem and some random thoughts

Last time, I felt this irresistible urge was fifteen years ago when I  penned down a poem with the title “The trees will grow in Dehra ”. I dedicated the poem to Ruskin Bond, the famous author whose stories captivated our childhood days with a magical spell, the vibes of which are still palpable.

Finally I could complete a poem  after fifteen long years!


                     ঠিকনা

                                                                              কমলজিত মেধি

আজীৱন কঢ়িয়াই ফুৰিছো এখন ঘৰৰ ঠিকনা

চাপৰিৰ বালি গচকি বাঁহৰ জপনা খুলি গৈ পোৱা

মোৰ সৰু ঘৰ য'ত

আইৰ আচলৰ এটা বনৰীয়া সপোন আছিলো মই

তন্ময় চাইছিলো অন্ধকাৰ খেদা জোনাকীৰ জাক

সোনোৱালী পথাৰৰ অবুজ টান 

"ববচা  বনত বকুল” বাগৰে

জাকি মাৰি উৰি যায় “বহলাই বহা” বগলীৰ জাক

আৰু কৈশোৰ যৌৱনৰ আলিদোমোজাত সেই

লিহিৰি আঙুলিৰ স্পৰ্শৰ মধুময় অনুভৱ

ৰেলৰ দূৰণিবতীয়া যাত্ৰাৰ যাত্ৰী মই

সম্ভৱনাৰে মোহনীয়া যাত্ৰা  মোৰ

চুমি চালো কত মহানগৰীৰ হেঙুলীয়া সন্ধিয়াৰ বোল

আজিৰ সহচৰ একালৰ বহ অচিন যাত্ৰী

বহদূৰৰ নামনিত আজি মোৰ ঘৰৰ ঠিকনা

তথাপি বুকুৰ গভীৰত আজিও অনুৰণিত

কাহানিও উভতিব নোৱাৰা

এখন ঘৰৰ চিনাকি সুৰ                                                                                    

The house was small but it had the space for all as some space had to be shared always for the commitment to the extended family. The evening saw the flurry of guests. The discussions over many cups of tea and snacks were endless and diverse from History to Literature, from Poetry to Religion, from Agriculture to natural disasters. I was a passionate listener to all of them sitting by the side of my father. I still can’t believe how my mother managed all the domestic chores alone and yet found time to look after us, those guests, read books for us and herself as well.

Nothing is static in this world and my place and home, I left in my fifteenth spring to join college, has also undergone changes over the years. The hands of my grandparents that showered boundless blessings have long turned into ashes. Going for an evening walk in the gravel road of once, where two buses plied in a day, is a dicey proposition now as unruly vehicles move fanatically with little concern for the pedestrian. The bamboo gate of our home gave way for an iron one and as we, the children, grew, the small house too grew in all directions.

Before I got married, my parents arranged a trip to Shillong with my then Fiancée and now wife as they thought would help us to open up unmindful of the fact that the long telephone conversations had already accomplished that feat. As me and Arpana ran to a hilltop, I saw my parents slowly walking up to the top. For the first time, I felt the pain of seeing them growing old.

A home is not merely a house but it encompasses the people we meet and the ambience of the surrounding, the innumerable chirping birds in the mornings, pristine greeneries with the hills as the backdrop from where the sun rises every morning, the recital of the holy scriptures at the "Namghor" and many more. Each part one got intertwined with the others to make a home of childhood. I can never go back to that home where everything has changed except my parents’ love for me. Be it by the side of the majestic Himalayas or  in an evening of raw exuberance by the river Seine or in those long drives through the hills and valleys , everywhere, I carry my childhood home and this poem is dedicated to it.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

A day in the life a Father

Every year, my wife goes for a long break from me with the kids in the month of March-April after the exam is over. The raucous home suddenly becomes silent. The long skype hours just can’t surrogate the sweet cuddle of my wife after a tiresome day or the fragrance of the two kids at the bed which fills me with joy untold.

Slowly as the silence pervades deeper into the heart, I know it’s time to get submerged in deep conversation with the person hiding in me. Once more I fall in love with myself, my books and days of the yesteryear. I begin to enjoy the seclusion. It doesn’t anyway demean my love and concern for the family. Perhaps my loving wife and kids will appreciate and forgive me for yearning some time for myself without them around.

With the two sons in deep sleep, silence has befallen once again at our home at Digboi. Wherever life takes us to, the four walls of this old B’low, built sometime in 1938, will always remind us of the beautiful time we had here seeing our kids growing up.

I switched on the laptop to write something about Sachin Tendulkar and late Rajesh Khanna.  Sachin and Rajesh both can wait for another day as I decided to write something about my day with my kids. Someday, when our sons grow up and become parents themselves and complain about our grandchildren, I can shield them like my parents and show this piece to remind exactly what they were once.

 (1)

The morning started with a frenzied search for our elder son, Hrishi’s school sweater and the blazer only to realize that he left it somewhere in the school yesterday and didn’t remember where he kept them off. At office, my wife informed that Ricky (Younger one- one year and eight month old pocket dynamo) had broken the Tata Sky set up box and how dearly she missed her favourite serials. By lunch time, chhotu has also added the land phone in the list of broken items and wife enquired whether BSNL would replace the set free of cost. Normally, I always get a warm welcome from the young one right at the entrance. Curious to know what kept him busy to forget my welcome, found him playing with the switch board standing on a stool he placed atop the dressing and a possible accident was averted at the nick of time. In the evening, another phone call from wife informed that Ricky managed to damage some part of a hand pump use to inflate the cycles of my neighbour he visits frequently.

My wife hurriedly left for club after my return for the rehearsal of the coming “Husbands’ Dinner” leaving the two demons at my care (Don’t know why these ladies take such long rehearsal for a simple cultural show). In between, she also informed me to quickly buy a new blazer for Hrishi as his lost blazer couldn’t be traced at school.

Fresh after a hot water bath, I was thinking about the case study presentation I would be making to the visiting Japanese delegates to our plant. I entered my room with a cup of green tea only to find the younger one already knocking the TV monitor with his plastic cricket bat as if I have fixed in at the wall to have knocking practice for him.

I wasn’t angry at all except feeling like pulling out whatever little remaining over my skull.

(2)

After the maid left, I played cricket with chhotu while the elder one made countless visits from his study to the kitchen followed by toilet breaks after I stared at him for his frequent kitchen visits. Hrishi is eight and half year old and a nice gentleman. He no more breaks the crockery or bangs the TV remote on the wall like his younger brother.

Hrishi is out and out an extrovert and never hesitates to speak out his mind. He gets irked at our habit of congratulating everyone after he or she performs in the so called cultural extravaganza by the in-house talents. So, once after such a program, he went straight to the singer and told “Auntie, Why do you always sing? You know, your song sucks”

Imagine the plight of us and the singer in the public and that too amongst the crowd of ladies! This is only one amongst many such embarrassing moments with Hrishi which often evoked spontaneous fun latter.

I had once a miraculous escape too from being thrashed by a lady. Hrishi was small and in those days used to tweak whoever and whatever he could reach. I was standing in a queue in the bank behind   a smart lady. Suddenly the lady turned back at me with a furious look only to realise that the offender was not me but my three year old son who was of the right height for the wrong place! I felt relieved to see her scowl turning to a smile instead of a “cheek handshake” for me. 

Today was a great day for Hrishi at school as he mastered the art of whistling. Very happy, he kept on practicing and my stern warning further made his zeal doubled and quadrupled. This evening, he accompanied me to the market. In the midst of continuous babbling, he once more enquired why it was bad mannerism to whistle in public and then after a second, he did exactly that ….phew…phew…...

A lady with her two teenage daughters was walking at our front. Her daughters felt the pinch of late November cold of Digboi except in their legs. Their mother immediately turned back to find out the mischief monger and couldn’t believe that a grey haired man attired in formal suit and tie could actually did that. With goose bumps, I smiled at her to explain that it was my son and not me.

But after Hrishi’s “phew”, the mother started gazing continuously at the bare legs of her young daughters.  I pulled Hrishi’s finger hard as a gesture to walk faster so that we were no more behind the lady with her two daughters.

                                                         ( Digboi, 20 Nov,23:45 hrs)

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

The lady with a beautiful dream

During school and college, we didn’t have a car or a two wheeler. We used to shuttle by bus between Guwahati and Hajo, my native place. My friends from that area will surely know the plight of the bus passengers travelling in the Guwahati-Hajo-Nalbari-Barpeta route. The roads are bumpy. The wise handyman will never clap the body of the bus to signal the driver to press the accelerator till passengers are stacked like the betel leaves. During summer, in the bus we could practically smell the food taken by the passengers  prior to boarding the bus.

Life has changed a lot in the last sixteen years after I did my Engineering. I drive a car and in the changed lifestyle find hard to adjust in a crowded bus coupled with all the associated hustle bustle. At office, I break my head in finding innovative ideas for energy conservation while I engage a four wheeler all the time for use of a solitary person. So during my last visit to Hajo, reminiscence of the old days prompted me to take a public bus ride from the airport.

Like any other day, the afternoon bus from Jalukbari to Hajo was crowded. I didn’t get a seat and struggled to avoid going off balance by clutching tightly to a seat. Number of vehicles has gone up many folds in this area but so are the passengers. I had travelled innumerable times in this route during my college days. Many times, my bus fare was borne by some generous co-passengers who knew my father well. Even some of them forcibly paid me the onward rickshaw fare. With little apparent reticence, I gladly accepted all those generosity. Only the resident engineering students can appreciate the precarious financial hardship we went through in those days.

Needless to say, I didn’t enjoy the bus ride and cursed myself for the adventure till I overheard the conversation of those two ladies who returned home after a tiring day. From the accent and feature, they seemed to belong to the immigrant community and looked trampled by poverty and hard work. But the words of one lady made my entire bus ride of forty odd minutes meaningful. Her husband had left her and three children after talaq to live with another woman. As she told the other lady about her struggle to get education for her children and their academic accomplishments, her voice choked in emotion and pride. No matter how much she endures, she will make sure that her three bright children have a dignified life through education. 

To me, that lady is the epitome of a rising India who wants to change life through education which alone can transform the future of this great country of once. In the twenty first century, destiny of India will not be written by the upper 30 percent of our society but those 70% who today stumble to afford two square meals a day. I have seen extremely talented children in the remote corners who need little care and grooming to grow wings to fly. With time, many of them will fade away till the right kind of infrastructure reaches them. But no matter how many bills are introduced in the Parliament, how many schemes are finalized, without the spread of meaningful education and infrastructure development, uneducated and unemployed mass will expand in the twenty first century India racing far ahead of the government freebies and create tremors to rock the foundation of this country. That leaves the Planning Commission toil even harder in doing arithmetic calculation to lower the cut off income to distinguish the poverty line! 

They need little care & grooming to grow wings to fly

During my childhood, perhaps hundreds of times, I heard this story. One of our relation and ancestors, Late Holiram Medhi left home in late nineteenth century to join the school established by the Jaminder of Gauripur which used to provide free education. It was an incredible event and decision of a village teenager who defied the traditional wisdom of those days. Latter on, late Medhi was appointed by the British as an Extra Assistant Commissioner. Sequences of the story of the young boy’s adventurous trip to Gauripur changed as it was told and retold but the crux of the story remained the same. Holiram Medhi's desire for education might have inspired many future generations of our locality and a number of times I was reminded that I didn’t have the liberty to become an exception in the twentieth Century.

May be without that adventurous trip of Late Holiram Medhi, today I would have still remained glued to the plough and a pair of bulls under the scorching sun.

A farewell wish and the soothsayer’s dream

We all know about Abraham Lincoln’s famous premonition of his own death. One night in his dream, Lincoln walked to the East room at White House and saw the corpse of the President of America lying in the midst of a group of mourners.   Lincoln was shot fatally by  John Wilkes Booth just after a few days of his dream. Many people believe in Telepathy where  the psi waves travel fast and far to connect with the sub conscious minds of  the receivers. I don’t have much wisdom to believe or disbelieve any of those metaphysical theories. But there have been incidents in my life which were at times funny and sometimes miracles. 

                                                                           (a) 

It was a farewell function of our company’s Chief Executive and everything was minutely planned to make the event a memorable one for the outgoing Executive. The music was soothing even to my impervious ears and the food was excellent. The cadenced sounds of the nearby water fountain with special light affect added more sheen to the whole set.

Finally it was time to wind up the program. The outgoing Chief Executive stood at the exit for the parting handshake with the guests for the final time. Each one wished him a happy retired life.

As my turn came, I wished him too.  But to my horror, inadvertently instead of wishing a happy retired life, I wished him a happy married life.

You can very well imagine the embarrassing situation I was into and so was the outgoing Executive. More I tried to do some damage control, more I fumbled. My wife did an excellent job that day with remarkable ease to normalize the situation only to go wild with laughter after getting into the car so much that I had to stop the car by roadside for some time till the laughter moderated somewhat..

But there were more surprises for all of us. After a few months, this retired Chief made a courtesy visit to our place. But that time he was flanked happily by his newly married wife.

                                                                               (b)

It was a stormy night in the Arabian sea. I was working in one of the Rigs of ONGC at Bombay High. Suddenly a large ship lost control in the stormy waves and collided with the Rig I was working. The Rig exploded with a deafening sound and got engulfed in fire. Terrified, I stood standstill, screaming for help and suddenly I realized I was not at Bombay High but punting and puffing at my own bedroom.

Next morning, I rang up my friend at ONGC if he was still there in the Rig. He laughed at my dream and informed that he was somehow safe in Mumbai. 

After a few days,  on July 27, 2005 , the similar accident did happen in an ONGC Rig when a vessel meant to evacuate a sick person collides with  the Rig turning the entire structure  into a raging inferno. 20 odd people lost their  lives besides properties worth millions were gutted.

I had once purchased a copy of Sigmund Freud’s famous book “Interpretation of Dreams”. I haven’t gone through the book yet. After I left Steel Authority of India, I thought of joining ONGC but a last minute appointment letter from Indian Oil once again changed my decision. Perhaps the safety concern of an offsite rig at my subconscious mind culminated in that dream that night. It was mere coincidence but it could have been more beneficial than some Seer’s dream of 1000 tonne golden treasure hidden beneath the earth.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Down the lanes of Durgapur- the uncanny side of life

(4)

When I first met him, he was a bundle of energy. A blue eyed Manager, he seemed to be a man in a hurry and nothing seemed to move on well without him whether it was office or outside. As a student, he had a brilliant track record and did Graduation and Master's from Indian Institute of Technology, Madras (Chennai). He had the appetite for enormous job responsibility just like his craving for good food.

This was the person I knew in Bijit Roy (name changed) at Durgapur. Like any other blue eyed executive, he used to maintain a punishing work schedule from morning to night. He was destined to rise very high.

That evening, Bijit was late at office. He had a lot of job to finish so that his superiors can sleep the night peacefully. But in that fateful evening, Life presented a twister to the Roy family. Bijit had a massive heart attack at his office. He was flown out to a super speciality hospital and undergone treatment for months. At times, it seemed like Bijit was fighting a lost battle. That entire ordeal was too intense to endure for his wife, a first time expecting mother. Their child didn’t see  light on earth .

After many months, Bijit joined office at Durgapur. I still remember how slowly he got down from his car, assisted by the driver to adjust his pair of crutches. His right hand required a special device to keep it in proper position and the lips drooped to the right side. He required to frequently wipe the uncontrolled saliva flowing out. It was painful to see  energetic and full of life man of once on the crutches. Though difficult for him to work in an industry shop floor, Bijit insisted to come to the office to be with the people he loved and shared the prime of his life. He wanted life to move on.

The sufferings of Bijit didn’t end here. Public memory is short and it is even shorter in corporate world where we often overestimate our own importance and fail to appreciate that we are important as long as we are useful. The brilliant IIT Graduate failed to understand this simple logic of life. He was asked to take voluntary retirement. Bijit refused as he thought that staying idle at home would do more harm than good. Finally with a heavy heart, he was compelled to take retirement as someone higher up was required to achieve the VR target. Bijit was a potential candidate.

In the last sixteen years of my professional life, I have met thousand of people and each one of them is a separate world in entity. I have seen people working with selfless dedication, people who place responsibilities above self, snobs who run from pillar to post to appease superior with heads always directed towards the Master's knees. Like a country, big industry houses run on the selfless devotion of many unseen faces who barely come to the limelight.

I haven’t heard of Bijit in the last 12 years. Perhaps he is doing well in some corner of the world. But his tragedy often reminds me the triviality of my own self. Money, status and power are important proponents of life. Yet a sweet home waits for you and you are far more important to your family than to the rest of the world.

                                                                       (To be continued)

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

The Railway Station and my story made in heaven

The Oil Town of Digboi has a small sleepy railway station. The Intercity express from Guwahati to Ledo runs through this station besides the Ledo-Dibrugarh passenger train and the goods trains to transport coal and other raw materials out from this region.

At Digboi, life passes at its own leisurely pace and the passenger train was also no exception . In those days, no one ever knew when the driver would stop the train in between for an unscheduled water break or to meet someone important on the adjoining road. If you travel by rail in this area, similarities of the surrounding will surely make you feel nostalgic making you to hum the popular song "Mere Sopno ki Raani" from the film "Aradhana".

My friend Ranjeet was to catch a train from Tinsukia. Like me, Ranjeet also came to Digboi in 2002 and both of us  joined Indian oil together.  He came to the station to catch the local passenger train to Tinsukia. Unknown about the whims of the local train drivers of this area, he thought the hour or so available with him was enough for the train to take him to Tinsukia.

That day, my friend would have surely missed his train from Tinsukia without the timely intervention of a practical fellow he befriended at the station. The man, took Ranjeet to the train driver and told him how important it was for my friend to reach Tinsukia early. The train driver immediately understood the gravity of the situation. He drove the train nonstop without any break and reached Tinsukia much ahead of time.

I don’t know how many people ever had the luxury of such a favour from a Railway system. Perhaps, Ranjeet still remembers the incident and he will surely get back to me once he reads this post. He once told me that the drivers of the toy train to Darjeeling that passes by his home in Kurseong were as friendly as the Digboi passenger train.

I too have a story of my own at this Digboi Railway station. It’s a real life story of my life.  But to tell that story, I need to retreat a little down the path.

The first time I met her, I didn’t bring sweets  but a collection of some of the immortal classics of Kishore Kumar. I told her that if destiny wouldn’t see us together, the songs would someday remind her of our meeting.  Her family offered me enormous amount of good food and I ensured that nothing was left unattended. It was an arranged meeting by our two families to find out if we two could make a compatible couple. Long Phone calls and occasional meetings, which proceeded that evening, did prove that we were a future compatible couple.

But there were lots of twists and turns in the story and we were on the verge of closing a beautiful chapter of our lives. There are too many people involved in an arranged relationship set up that can lead to a fall off.

Those were hard days for me too. I stayed at B’low 26 Indian Oil Guest House at Digboi. The evenings suddenly became melancholic. The Patkai range mountain, visible from my room, looked gloomier. That day, I had a hurried lunch and left for the Refinery. However for some reason, I was required to come back to my room after some time. While returning, I could see a large group of students assembled in the Hall. Life always preserves some pleasant surprises for you and seeing her that day at the Digboi Indian Oil Guest House was surely one of them.

She came for a field visit to Oil India , Duliajan on the Mass Communication course she was pursuing. From Duliajan, they were taken on a day trip to Digboi on their last day of the Project. From Digboi, they were about to visit Margherita in that same day. Oil India did a wise job to host their lunch at B’low 26 which was also the address of this fugitive for some time.

She left the guesthouse after about half an hour with her friends. That evening she would go back to Guwahati from Margherita in the Inter City express. She asked whether I could come to the station on her return.

I borrowed a motorcycle from my friend great Abhijit Deuri who worked  at Engineers India Limited(EIL) and stayed at Digboi. Abhijit left EIL thereafter and now  work  in Middle East. His Yamaha bike was a special one. The brakes of the bike hardly worked and he showed me how to use both the feet for creating friction with the road to slow down the bike. By the time I reached the station that evening, I was already late. I dropped the bike and swiftly picked  a Cadbury chocolate from a nearby . As I entered the station in that November evening, it was almost dark. The train had arrived at the platform. And there I saw her, franatically searching for me amongst the small crowd in the platform.

As the train slowly moved, I gave her the Chocolate I had for her. We were together for a minute or so. That special minute was something beyond the scope of words for a lesser mortal like me.

Perhaps that Cadbury Chocolate did wonders to our lives. By next year, we got married. In the last ten years, life has enthused us with many pleasant surprises but meeting my (now) wife Arpana at B'low 26 and that November evening at Digboi Railway station remain special.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Down the lanes of Durgapur

Normally I live six days a week with almost “No time to stand and stare”.  But an unsolicited guest called Chicken Pox has brought life to a complete standstill this week. With abundant time, I shall be in solitary confinement of my room for the next two-three weeks while the rest of the world remains absorbed in the midst of festivities.

I got up early today. There was a light drizzle and having nothing to do, kept on lying on the bed.The rain drops, sickness and the melancholic weather put my mind immediately in flashback mode back to the time I was in Durgapur at Steel Authority of India Limited(SAIL).

(1)

Only one Ghosh Babu in a Century

Even today my past colleagues at Durgapur will never believe that Ghosh Babu once offered me and Rajat Da (Rajat Pradhan- my Friend, Philosopher cum Guide from Durgapur) rasogolla at the Durgapur Market. It is of course quite natural. Ghosh Babu was a renowned miser and that was his USP. Once returning from job, I saw him queuing up to collect yearly bonus of the employee cooperative. The queue was long and impatient. Ghosh Babu had a frail physique and it was difficult to withstand the compressive forces in the queue which buckled at times protruding him out from the race. However,  the next moment, Ghosh Babu converted his weakness into strength and with the help of his frail built, sneaked back to the line.

In the afternoon, I met Ghosh Babu at site workshop. I was curious to know how much bonus he got and asked him. Ghosh Babu smiled and said that he had only a few shares in the cooperative and so didn’t get much.

“Ek taka Kuri Paisa peyesi” ( Got One Rupee and Twenty Paisa only).

I admired his grit and determination to get that One rupee twenty paisa which was by no means a big amount in 1997. But except for getting money, Ghosh Babu always exhibited sheer negativism. Bag was his colleague and both of them were in Security Department till security in all SAIL installations were taken over by CISF. Obviously as security, Ghosh Babu preferred to handle the stick while Bag opted for the Gun. Both were at loggerheads and their rivalry continued to the new department as well. Once I saw both of them trying to shift a faulty motor at the workshop by pulling with two ropes. But the motor was not moving.  Being a rival to Bag, Ghosh Babu pulled the motor exactly in the opposite direction to Bag.

Ghosh Babu’s daughter was getting married and the entire department was invited to the wedding reception. Ghosh was moving around busily cladding Dhoti Kurta and a portfolio bag. Our boss Tiwariji played a prank and asked-

“Ghosh –aaj tomar meyer biye ?” ( Ghosh- Is it your Daughter’s wedding today)

Ghosh Babu was always a "na..na..na." person. Old habits seldom die .Ghosh Babu immediately replied “ Na Na Na…” It sounded as if he was protesting Tiwariji's question.

In a moment, Ghosh Babu understood the trick, smiled and said “he he Sir” (Yes Sir)

(2)

Babaji- The  Vagabond

Babaji was another typical character I came across in those days. I don’t know how he became famous as Babaji. May be it was for his association with some “Joydev Mela” near Andalgram village in West Bengal. But his attitude was absolutely that of a Babaji. He took long leave and most of times remained unpaid . So running the domestic chores of his family fell on his brothers and Babaji remained a free bird. After a long break, he would come smiling to the office and offer everyone something from candy to Charminar Cigarette as if he had come from a successful world tour.

Babaji was a magician. During his long absence from office, he would roam around innumerable number of schools organizing magic show. In return , he didn’t earn enough to pay even his helper. Magic was his passion. I tried to counsel him once to curtail his absenteeism at office which rendered him into hopeless poverty. But he was adamant.

“ Saheb, those smiles of the children….. worth a million” – his words still ringing at my ear.

Babaji’s daughter got married while I was still in Durgapur. All of us went to the marriage party. His daughter was a beautiful girl and we heard all the expenditure of the marriage was borne by Babaji’s benevolent brothers.

We were the VIPs in the party and guided to the dining space for dinner. What surprised us was that a group of people had already assembled there and were trying to break through the entrance of the dining space. A  strong and stout man was valiantly guarding the entrance  by extending his arms which reached both the poles of the entrance. His sweat in the dark physique was glittering in light. There was no time to miss. We, the VIPs, were pushed through the entrance by our guide. Only after the VIPs comfortably sat, the guard relented and the dining hall was a sea of humanity.

(3)

Rajatda’s Maruti and the Bicycle Rider

It was the first day of my first job. I went to the Steel Melting Shop to see some repair jobs in a crane. There I met him, a bulky man with a hoarse voice. I told to myself that getting job done out of him would be very difficult. I was utterly wrong. He was a gentleman, a very kind hearted man and soon became Manik da to me.

Manik da was fond of good food and loved to entertain guests. Only even if he spoke something politely, it seemed like thundering. I visited his home a number of times to cherish homemade “Rabree” and “Luchi” soaked in Taal juice.

Once me and Rajat da were coming back from Manik da’s house. Suddenly the old Maruti Car engine stopped and refused to start. It was evening time and a lone bicycle rider was merrily passing by singing Rabindra Sangeet. For a moment, he stopped and  commented “Ki tante parsen na ?”( What happened, not able to pull) and left.

Suddenly the engine roared back to life. Rajat da slowed the car by the side of the bicycle rider and commented “ Ami tante na parle, apnaar ki khayati”( What do you lose if I can’t pull ) and left.

But after some distance, the engine again fell silent. Rajatda was trying hard to start the car. By that time the bicycle rider once again crossed us but not before commenting “ Tante na parle cycle e bhalo” (If your car is not good enough, cycle is a better option) and left singing.

Indeed, the  witty Bengalis have no parallel.

(Years being away from Bengal have made my Bengali  quite rusty. Readers may excuse me for that)

(to be continued)

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

No more better off as an animal

Our elder son Hrishi is quite a merry heart and most of the time remains engrossed in his dreamy world like his father. Very fussy about good food and believes that life always gives him a better chance tomorrow and so no hurry for today(Though years' of life experiences have hardened his father's attitude by now to grab some opportunity coming on the way) . Obviously, he often gets ticked off by his demanding mother. The other day, he didn’t remember his Computer Practical mark which was declared in the class. My wife came to know about the declaration of the result in the class from Mrs X while discussing about the doomed fate of her son. When asked, why he forgot his mark, he coolly replied  that he had other important matters to think of when the teacher was declaring the result.

So, he  once again received a good warning. My wife declared that he would have been better off as an animal and was wrongly sent to the world by God as a human. Hrishi got angry and came to me whining that indeed he would have been better off as an animal.

So I asked him which animal he wanted to be.

“Obviously a Tiger”. Pat came the answer.

I was very delighted. Tiger is also my revered animal. It symbolizes pride. My son must have understood the value of pride at a tender age. And why not ! After all he carries my blood in his vein !

So I asked him “Why do you want to become a Tiger ?”

He replied instantly “I will eat only non-veg and Mama can’t push that awful vegetable stuff down my throat. There is no school for tiger and I can go for hunting occasionally as I wish and sleep all the day. Also as a Tiger, I can live inside a Tiger Project safely”.

" But you always get hurt when you see the tiger hunting the deer in National Geography."

" But Papa, when I am a tiger, I will no longer be a rational animal. So I will be quite happy to hunt"

I understood, our son had already learnt the initial lessons of being practical in life.

I advised him not to commit the mistake of telling his mother the above. What I didn’t tell him that Tiger is no more safe inside the Tiger project. Whatever is written in the books may not be correct in the real world.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Going home is like a pilgrimage

Going home is like a pilgrimage. When you are at home, never know when and how the faces and places , long forgotten, suddenly come alive in your memory as if you met them just yesterday. This morning at home after quite some time, my mind drifted back down the memory lane . Seeing the backyard pond of my home at Hajo, a small incident with my childhood friend came to my mind . During the holidays, while my mother had her afternoon siesta assuming that her son had already slept, I used the sneak out to the outside world which was far more interesting than the hopeless school books.

In that backyard pond, someone parked a country boat . During the rainy season , when the flood water inundates the fields and the pond, the country boat in a village is a very essential transport. My friend and I used to row the boat from one corner of the pond to the other in those winter afternoons and it was a tremendous adventure.

But trouble brewed here too like in the other areas when both of us wanted to be the Captain of the boat. The Captain would control the boat with the stick used as oar till he gets bored or tired while the other had to sit pillion waiting for his coveted moment to come. Both were not ready to forfeit the legitimate claim to be the Captain and all my arguments of becoming the captain on the basis that the pond was in our land fell flat. I proposed a novel idea to settle for once and all who the boss was. A few days ago, I read about two warriors fighting a "duel" to decide the supremacy of one over the other in older time. My friend agreed for one. It was also decided that the winner gets the sole right over the boat and would also dictate terms in other areas like with the Cricket bat. 

So we had a real" duel " that afternoon . Only we had sticks instead of sword. In those childhood days , I was fascinated by the Great Napoleon after I saw him in a book cover riding a horse and with an open sword in one hand. I finished the book in one sitting and I too imagined myself as a legendary warrior like him.

Finally, we were rescued by one elder who raised the alarm and with great difficulty separated us. But by then both of us had through beating with rashes and swelling everywhere. Mother kept on yelling at me while applying cotton soaked in Dettol over the prized wounds of her little warrior. But the "Duel"remained still indecisive. 

My friend today struggles in life to make both ends meet while I galloped the ladder of success. Yet at the end of the day all your success in the eyes of the society may not see you win. So the "Duel" remains indecisive.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com